


Clair(e)voyance 1.0

by notevenjokingfic



Series: Clair(e)voyance [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 08:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic
Summary: Clair(e)voyance is a murder / police / psychological thriller + procedural.Detective Sergeant James Fraser and Chief Medical Examiner Claire Randall. Both are perhaps a little jaded, and shut off from the world, until the other steps into theirs. It’s supernatural. Intrigue. Romance. Murders. Mystery. All of that and so, so much heart. It’s the telling of several different cases that span over their partnership – which is a word that comes to take on several different meanings as the story goes on. And each case is more interesting than the next.(summary by the love themusicsweetly)





	1. 1.1:  Detective Sergeant James Fraser

> “Where’s the body now?”
> 
> “In the morgue already, Detective Sergeant.”
> 
> “It’s been moved from the crime scene already? What’s the damn hurry?” he inquired from the constable in front of him. The young man just shrugged. How in the hell was he supposed to deal with a crime scene when the body was missing? How was he supposed to gather evidence in relation to the victim if that vital piece of the puzzle was missing? James threw up his hands, and left.
> 
> Detective Sergeant James Fraser was seriously considering an early retirement. The job was wearing on him. Every day the same thing. Murder. Mayhem. Liars. Drug Addicts. Runaways. 
> 
> The perpetrators seemed to get younger and younger. Which was a peculiar thing for him to think since he was only in his 30s. James had joined Scotland Yard at 23. He rose quickly through the ranks with his clever mind, and a work ethic that rivaled men many years his senior. He was single, which was fine. So far the couple of girlfriends he’d had couldn’t handle his job. They hated his hours, the way he detached himself from society in order to stay sane. He took to the outdoors to clear his mind. He left London every chance he could to hike the countryside, sometimes taking nothing but his grandfather’s plaid as a blanket, a backpack of food, and a small tent. 
> 
> James was a Highlander, born and bred. He was often teased about his broad Scots accent at the precinct, but he didn’t care. They could say what they wanted about his speech, they couldn’t deny his skill as an investigator. 
> 
> Which was another reason why he was considering early retirement. Most days he was surrounded by incompetence. 
> 
> And right now he needed to pay a visit to the new medical examiner in order to ascertain why protocol had been abandoned. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Dr. Randall was not yet satisfied with her new digs. The old Examiner kept a very shoddy house. The Morgue had been a mess. Files in disarray, and improperly managed. Some notes were illegible, and nothing in the drawers were grouped in any sort of order, that she could see. The instruments were scarce, some rusted. 
> 
> She made an inventory of what she needed. She contacted the cleaning staff and had them come to the Morgue immediately to scrub it and make it worthy of the medical facility it was. 
> 
> She liked being a Medical Examiner. It was a solitary profession. Quiet. Simple. No more losing patients, facing loved ones with the news. But beyond that, being an M.E. afforded her the reclusiveness she craved. No one to give her dirty or inquisitive looks. No one to gossip about her personal or professional life. Here she could hide her talents. 
> 
> Talent as a doctor. 
> 
> Talent as an intuitive. 
> 
> She got tired of the “how did she know that?” questions that plagued her over the years when working in a hospital in Boston. She’d gotten better at holding her visions inside until she could find the medical evidence and precedent needed from other cases to support them. But as an M.E. she could be herself with no one to see her. 
> 
> Now, with her husband dead, she had moved back to London to start over. A new life. A life in which she wasn’t cheated on, or made to “play nice” with boring, stuffy academics. A life where “keeping up appearances” could go straight to hell. She wasn’t the meek and obedient type, which was what Frank had wanted. She’d married far too young. Married too long to an intolerant man.
> 
> The only men she wanted to spend time with now were cold on a slab in front of her. 
> 
> She walked over to the morgue’s refrigerator, and pulled open the only occupied drawer. The body needed to be examined, but she had to set up a few things first. 
> 
> She closed the drawer, and turned to walk away when the double doors to the morgue were flung open. She registered five things. 
> 
> Tall. Red headed. Broad shouldered. Handsome as the devil.
> 
> And decidedly pissed off. 


	2. 1.2:  Where's the Body?

“Where’s the body?” 

His tone was as harsh as his entrance. 

Claire stopped, and faced her intruder. “And you are?” she asked, hands on hips.

James paused. He gave a ghost of a smile. “Sorry. I’m Detective Sergeant James Fraser,” he stepped forward to shake her hand. “And a body was removed from a crime scene before I got there. So, I’m a wee bit fashed. Didna mean to be so rude.”

Claire was impressed. She didn’t know too many officers who admitted to being frazzled. They were always about control, but this one looked a bit sheepish. She took his hand. It was warm, firm, and swallowed her own. She looked into his face, and was met with a pair of deep blue eyes. Unwavering. Honest eyes. 

Something danced on the edge of her mind. 

“The body is here,” Claire said, finally letting go. “I haven’t started yet. I need to prepare first.”

James nodded. The bones of her hand were delicate. Hard to imagine this waif of a woman tearing through dead people. 

“Can I see him? I mean, while you do that.” James asked. 

Claire considered for a moment. “No. You can stay if you like, and watch the autopsy, but no. I won’t have evidence contaminated.”

“Aye,” James said. “I’ll wait.”

Claire prepared the table, gathered her necessary instruments on a tray, gowned herself, and then went for the body. When she was ready she adjusted her microphone, and got to work. 

She was thorough, James could see that. She dictated everything, cataloged each piece of clothing, noted every scar, birthmark, and tattoo. He watched her work. Steadily. Carefully. Confidently. Her voice was strong, competent, and quite easy to listen to. She captured his attention, in more ways than one. Curls riotous around her head, which sometimes hid her face. Her whisky coloured eyes never missed a thing. She stirred him in ways a female hadn’t in a long while, which was why he found himself wondering what she looked like under that voluminous lab coat. 

She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

And the most interesting. 

Because at one point he could have sworn he’d seen her close her eyes and shake her head, as if something was buzzing around inside her brain. When she opened her eyes, she made a quick notation on a legal pad that sat off to the side, but did not verbalize it. An off-the-record note.

He maneuvered his body slowly so as not to arouse suspicion. Taking his time, he crept around the table to see the paper. 

Her handwriting was difficult to make out_. _It looked like a _poison_, followed by what might have been _Stranger_. 

James stared at Claire. A tiny shiver ran down his spine. Now how on earth would she know that? 

* * *

James sat at his desk. It was late. Very late. He was looking over the M.E.’s notes. Claire’s notes. 

Tapping the fingers of his right hand, he kept staring at the last line in the report.

“Patient found to have excess saliva build up, showing signs of a breakdown of the muscle tissue, kidney failure, excess toxins in the bloodstream, as well as muscle tissue byproducts in the blood, signs of respiratory failure. Cause of death: poison.”

James couldn’t stop thinking about her momentary lapse, and the note on her legal pad. A note she made before cutting the body open.

It’s like she “saw” it, before she saw it.

That ignited his superstitious Scottish mind. It brought to mind the old Gaelic words parents used to scare little kids into following rules. Words like sìthiche, Bana-bhuidseach. He didn’t believe in fairies, or witches, but he wasn’t going to renounce them outright either. His culture was still his culture, after all.

But the woman intrigued him. In many, many ways. 

* * *

Claire lay in her bed thinking about her first autopsy at Scotland Yard. She’d been careful in her notes, and in her dictation. She knew what to look for, and made sure to find the physical symptoms to support her knowledge. 

Her gift was a blessing and a curse.

She’d never meant to have an audience, but she thought she’d hid it well. It was a small vision, and for that she was grateful. The bigger ones sometimes caused her to faint. The Detective had been serious, quiet. He didn’t ask questions, or interrupt her work. 

But he was a distraction. A damn big one. With the most extraordinary hair, all copper, and gold. Intelligence poured from those piercing blue eyes. 

She closed her eyes and saw him again, watching her. Always watching her. 

Did he know? Did he see?

He couldn’t have. It was brief. Fleeting. 

But the man intrigued her. In many, many ways.


	3. 1.3:  Solitude

Solitude. The sound of her voice her only company.

Days passed. Simply. Easily. Quietly.

Sometimes she was very busy, the drawers full. Sometimes it was quiet enough for her to get her work done, and the paperwork filed.

She’d been able to add what she could to her notes to help the officers at Scotland Yard. A flash revealing the cause of death, or gender of the perpetrator, and she would search the body for the evidence to point the police in the right direction. A long blonde hair from a jealous wife. The scratches from an angry lover. Sometimes the entire scenario would play in her head, and she would invite the detective who caught the case into the morgue to “run something by him”. She was very good at making the officers think they’d worked out the evidence. 

Except for one.

Detective Sergeant James Fraser. 

He watched her like a hawk. Which made her nervous. Part of her nerves came from the fact that his eyes lingered a little too long on her. 

Appreciatively. 

She couldn’t remember the last time a man looked at her like that. Not even her husband. 

He made her feel. And after Frank’s death she didn’t want feelings. Feelings hurt. Feelings like betrayal, and disdain. She’d had enough of those feelings to last a lifetime.

The detective aroused different feelings, though. Feelings long buried in Claire. Longing. Lust. He was too damn good looking, that was the problem. The way his hair curled at his nape. The small scar at the base of his throat just begging for her lips. The scruff after a long day. And the way he breathed the word ‘_Aye’ _when he was thinking something over_. _

Aside from the obvious attraction, he was extremely clever. And he seemed to enjoy bantering ideas back and forth with her. Claire always was attracted to a keen mind. 

“Do ye think it could be connected?” They both stared down at yet another victim in a drawer.

Claire pursed her lips. Oh, it was connected. But she hadn’t found the tangible evidence yet.

“Could be,” she said, noncommittally. 

“Och, come on, Claire,” he said, tucking his note pad away. His head hurt from over analyzing. It had been a long day. “I’m starving. Let’s get some dinner.” 

She looked up at him. “No, thank you. I’ve got some tidying up to do here yet.”

James looked around the morgue. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Not a paper on her desk. “Oh, aye. I can see that. Swamped, you are.” He raised an eyebrow. She was avoiding him.

Claire laughed. “Okay. You caught me. It’s just, I don’t do dinner with people I work with.” 

He threw her a look. “It’s work, Claire. No’ a date.” He took two steps toward the door and stopped. Turned back around to face her, cat eyes narrowed. “Although, I wouldna mind one of those, as well.” 

The vision slammed into her brain. _Heavy breaths. Moans. Sweat. Skin. Legs gripping his hips. Big hand cradling her breast. His mouth hot on hers. And the feel of him pulsing inside her. _

And just like that, it was gone. 

Claire blushed. God, she hated this. Because her visions were never wrong. She was headed down this path like a freight train on its track. It would take all her strength to thwart it. 

She took a deep breath. “I suppose it will do us good to talk about the case.” She avoided his eyes. “Just let me grab my coat and purse, okay, Jamie?”

Jamie.

He watched her walk towards her desk, pulling open a narrow closet to retrieve her things. Jamie. No one called him Jamie, save his family. 

He never let anyone at Scotland Yard give him a nickname. Ever.

Yet, she had just called him by the name he’d had as a wee lad.

* * *

He watched her tuck into her fourth slice of pizza. He liked a woman with an appetite. Reaching for the wine bottle, he topped up her glass.

It may have started out hesitantly, but they’d had a good night. Claire loosened up after a couple of glasses of Merlot, and some good, generic conversation. She was born in Oxfordshire, only child, parents died in a car crash when she was five. Raised by an Uncle, who’d also passed.

He shared his family tidbits, the deaths of his parents and brother, the sister he did have and her family. You had to give in order to get from Claire. Once she got some food and wine in her, the conversation became easier. They spoke of work and why she became an M.E. She liked to work alone, she said. She got tired of losing patients, and since she was damn good at diagnostics it seemed like a good next step.

“And why no partner for you, Jamie?”

“Interesting nickname ye’ve given me,” he said, grabbing another slice for himself.

She froze.

_Shit. Shitshitshit_. “You mentioned it,” Claire mustered her bravado. Looked him straight in the eye. No blinking.

“I did not,” Jamie said, returning her stare. Just a hint of panic in those amber eyes.

“You did,” she said. “You said your nephew was Wee Jamie, named after you.”

Jamie hesitated. So he had. Two hours after she first used the nickname, but he’d let that go.

For now.

He inclined his head in defeat. “So, why do ye think my latest victim is tied to the last one?”

An abrupt change in topic was in order. He didn’t want to lose her. He was having a good time. Claire was good company. She was gorgeous. Sexy. Now he found himself being attracted to her sharp mind and quick humour.

“They both died of some sort of poisoning. I haven’t determined what, yet. I’m waiting for toxicology to come back for the latest victim, but what I haven’t told you is that their stomach contents seemed similar. That should give you more information.”

Jamie set his slice down on his plate. “Interesting. So I know where I’m starting tomorrow. On the street retracing their steps.”

They finished dinner sharing stories, some gory, some embarrassing, some hilarious. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun in a man’s company. Being married to Frank was not easy. He was fastidious. Predictable. Controlling. He never liked it if she laughed too loud, or talked to much. 

In the beginning they’d gone out to dinner like this, and then with other academic couples. Those were never fun. She’d see the grimace cross his face when she said something he didn’t find intelligent enough, or he’d give her the “For God’s Sake Claire Quiet Down” tap on her leg under the table. 

The worst outing was when she spontaneously went along on the dinner where he was “treating his research assistant” as a thank you. She knew immediately that they were sleeping together. Sparked quite the argument when they got home. The first of many. 

None of that absolved her from her sin, though.

Jamie seemed to like her laugh. She could tell. He’d watch her mouth then grin from ear to ear. His eyes would get even more cat-like as he enjoyed her mirth. 

He paid the bill, amid protests. He helped her on with her coat. He escorted her to his car, not letting her walk home at this hour.

He pulled up smoothly in front of her townhouse. He was out of the car and around the vehicle just as she climbed out. 

“Thanks for dinner, James.” She stuck out her hand.

Jamie looked at her hand as if she had the plague. “James, is it now?”

He reached out and took her hand. The way a man takes a woman’s hand. A woman he’s been on a date with. 

_Hands. Stroking. Wound in her hair. Tugging. Heat filled her chest. Panting. Passion._

She found it hard to breathe. She could feel the arousal, the heat blossom between her legs.

She twisted her hand out of his and fell back against the car. 

Jamie turned, concern mingled with shock on his face. He knew immediately what had happened. 

He waited until she caught her balance. And her breath.

“Ye’ve seen us. Haven’t ye?” He bent his 6′ 4″ frame down so he could look Claire in the eyes. 

Claire was terrified. _How to answer? God, dare she tell him? _She didn’t need to, apparently. Bastard already knew. She could see it in his eyes.

“We’re good together, aren’t we?” he whispered, eyes dark like a hurricane.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, we are.”


	4. 1.4:  Retracing Steps

He spent the next five days retracing his victims’ steps. He talked to so many people. Devoured past interview transcripts. Phone records. Tried to think of every damn stone he could turn over. His efforts finally provided a link between the two men. 

Both had a history of domestic abuse. 

After conducting some interviews of his own, he was pretty sure he could rule out the wife and girlfriend as suspects. 

He found one more commonality though. But he needed to talk to Claire about it first. 

It had been five days since they’d had pizza and wine together. Five days since he’d taken her hand and watched her flinch as if burned. It didn’t take his detecting skills to figure this out. He was certain now. The evidence was too convincing.

Claire Randall saw things. Visions. Premonitions. 

Claire Randall was a Psychic. 

He wasn’t innocent. He knew the signs of an aroused woman. Pupils dilated. Cheeks flushed. Breath short. Every time he touched her, she reacted. 

When they parted five days ago she was furious. Twisting her hand from his she grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and brought him to within mere inches of her face. She cursed him. Hard. 

“You fucking bastard!“ Then she shoved him out of way, and disappeared inside her townhouse before he was able to make it to the bottom of her front door stairs. 

He could hear the music before he reached the basement of the building. The pounding of the drums loud and jarring, the words coming fast and hard. 

_This doesn’t mean I lost my dream,_

_It’s just right now I got a really crazy mind to clean._

_Can you save_

_Can you save my_

_Can you save my heavy dirty soul?_

Jamie stopped at the double doors and watched her through the window. She was laying bones out on a table from a box. 

He watched her hold each piece of the skeleton for a moment. Internalizing. Listening. Then lay it out in its correct spot. She did this with each and every vertebrae. Solemn, Respectful. She pulled out a humerus. She smiled as if remembering something special. Whimsically. Fondly. What had Claire Randall held in her arms to make her smile like that? She pulled out the skull. Ran her long, delicate fingers over the cranium. She closed her eyes, and he saw her shake her head sadly. What did she see? 

Down here, hidden away, the music drowning out the world around her, Claire was free to be herself. To let her gift flow without fear. The bones spoke to her. A good woman. Her death was peaceful, of that Claire was sure. And she had loved, and been loved. 

Jamie watched with fascination. _Heavy dirty soul_. What was it that weighed her down? Why did such a beautiful woman, eyes that could shine with golden light, choose to lock herself away in solitude? 

The song was still pulsing. He pushed the door, and felt the resistance. He reared back.

Locked. 

_Death inspires me like a dog inspires a rabbit._

He banged on the door. The music prevented his intrusion. So he waited. Man, those drums. They were relentless. He didn’t understand how she could concentrate.

The song finished. He knocked and watched her head snap up. 

Their eyes locked for a moment. He could see the war raging in her mind. So, she had been avoiding him. He held up the file in his hand, and shouted, “I think I found something!”

The next song kicked on and she jumped. More drums, heavy bass. She set the skull down gently, and came over to unlock the door. She hit the button on her sound system as she passed it drenching the sterile room in silence.

The lock slide free. She didn’t bother to open the door, just turned and walked away. Jamie stepped inside the cool room and let the door whoosh closed. 

“Thanks for yer time.” he said by way of hello. “I have a couple of connections in the poisoning cases, but one needed yer expertise.”

Claire went back to her work removing bones without a word. Jamie followed her over to the table. “What do ye have here?”

“Woman. Brought in for me to see if I could identify her, maybe connect her to a missing persons.”

“What did she die of?”

“Nat-” Claire stopped. “I won’t know until I examine everything.” Her hands gripped the edge of the box, and she let her head fall forward. She grit her teeth until she could feel the pulse in her jaw jump. _Where had her guard gone? Where had her carefully constructed persona gone? _

_“_What’s your question?” Claire kept working. Keeping it professional.

“The autopsy report said the stomach contents were the same. Can ye confirm somethin’ for me?”

Claire gave him the briefest of glances. “I can try.”

“Would ye say both men ate at the same place before they died?” He watched her eyes widen just a little before answering.

“I don’t really know for sure. I mean, it’s possible. If I remember correctly I indicated they had similar meals. I can’t confirm they were from the same place.” Claire turned back to the box and closed her eyes for a brief moment revisiting the impression that hit her during the second postmortem. _Glass cases. Fresh, crisp vegetables. Bright blue floor. Small tables. Sunlight. _

She grabbed a mandible. _This one had been chatty in life._

Jamie leaned across the table at her, trying to meet her eyes. She did know. Instinctively. He wished she would trust him.

“Talk to me, Claire,” he said, soft, and caring. Pleading. A lover’s voice. 

“That’s what we’re doing,” she said, clipped and hard.

“Yeah. How about ye tell me the truth. Without ye dropping yer head, or swearin’ at me?” He’d never met a woman so closed off.

“Look. I’m busy, and I want to get this done because I’m hungry.” She took out another bone, a rib, and laid it on the table. 

“Here,” he said, stepping around the table and reaching inside the box, “let me help.”  
  
“No!” Claire shouted, blocking his way with her arm. She would never get the whole picture if she didn’t connect with every single bone. She moved too fast and made a mistake. She accidentally placed a hand on his chest trying to hold him off. 

Right above his heart. _Laughter. Affection. Joy. So much joy. _

She pulled her hand back, fast. Her breath was irregular. She grasped at the first excuse she could think of to cover her behaviour. “You don’t have gloves on.”

_Now_, Jamie thought. _Now we talk about it._ He stepped closer to her. 

“Ye know what we could be. But ye don’t think we should be together.” He tried to catch her eye, but she was having none of it. 

“That’s right,” Claire said. Another bone on the table. “I think I’ve been very clear.” 

“Well, I need to be clear, too.” Honesty. It felt like the right way to go in this case. “I feel this. Just as ye do. I can’t ignore it.”

“Well, you have to.” She prayed the floor would open up and swallow her whole. 

“I can’t. I dinna want to.” _Jesus_, Jamie thought. _Am I actually begging right now?_

“Not my pig, not my farm, Fraser.” She would not get into this. She was doing fine without another Alpha Male in her life. She dug through the box.

“Can you?” He asked her, his voice mocking.

“Can I what?” Claire was being purposely obtuse. It served her well, at times. A collarbone set in place. 

“Ignore it.” His voice reflected his impatience. 

“Yes. Quite easily” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but Claire decided it would have to be her truth for right now.

“I don’t believe ye.” He would not give in without a fight. “Why do we have to ignore it?” Persistence. It’s what made him a good detective. 

She slammed the femur down on the table with a crash. The clang of the metal table reverberated around the room. Jamie jumped back.

“Dammit. STOP.” She realized she wouldn’t get any peace until she spelled it out for him. Fine. He wanted her secrets, did he? Damn him. He had no right to them. 

“Now you listen to me, James Fraser. I get how perceptive you are. I understand that you _think _you know me. But you don’t. I will say this once, and only once. Am I attracted to you? Hell, yes. You’re too damn good-looking by half, and smarter than the average man which makes you even more alluring in my eyes. But there cannot be an ‘us’. Understood? I like the men in my life to be like my cadavers. Simple. Silent. And dead. ” 

“But that’s not what ye see.” Jamie’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s. 

Claire threw her hands in the air, exasperated. 

“Do yer visions ever not come to pass?” he persisted.

Claire counted to twenty before she answered. _Fucking, stubborn Scot. _

“No,” she whispered. “I haven’t been wrong. Yet.”


	5. 1.5:  "He hated that I made more money than he did"

> “He hated that I made more money than he did. Hated it. Every time someone asked me about being a doctor he would interject some embarrassing tidbit or take a crack at me. People would laugh and the moment would be over.”
> 
> They were sitting on a park bench near Scotland Yard in Westminster Gardens. Claire had told him to leave after her admission that her visions always came to pass. He’d angered her. _“I’m not him, Claire,” _was all he could say. She’d deflated then. Pointed to a straight backed chair in the corner of the morgue, silently telling him to sit. 
> 
> So he sat. Dossier on his lap. Waiting. 
> 
> And when she was finished she grabbed her things, and left. He trailed behind her like some love sick puppy, until they found themselves in this place. It was a cool evening, and the sun was setting. She’d stopped at a food truck, not bothering to ask him first for his preference, and bought them falafels. 
> 
> She hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down, her food going cold in her hands. Like a great dam had broken open. Her words flowed endlessly, each one a drop that formed a pool around her. He could feel the depth of her drowning, what continued to drown her. 
> 
> “We were a novelty. A couple of Brits living in Boston. ‘Tally-ho!’ ‘God bless the Queen’, and all that.” The sarcasm, thick. The tone, derisive. 
> 
> “Then, there were the students. Young. Gorgeous. Flirty. Drawn in by his accent.“ The drops, hot now. Scalding. The pain, obvious. Deep.
> 
> She looked up into the sky and laughed, incredulous. “He was a fucking history professor for God’s sake! They threw themselves at him. And he caught them.” She shook her head. “Bastard. I won’t go there again. I won’t be ridiculed or made to feel less than. I’m a Doctor for fuck’s sake, and a history professor made me feel stupid.”
> 
> Jamie ate silently. _What a wanker! He had a woman like Claire, and he let her go? Any fool could see she was perfect. Beautiful. Passionate. Intelligent. _ He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that her husband could not see the vixen he had in his bed. Claire Randall was the whole package. She was a rare woman. 
> 
> Perhaps it was her gift that Frank struggled with. 
> 
> “So no, James. There won’t be an ‘us’. A ‘we’. An anything. There’s just me. Alone. The way I like it.”
> 
> Jamie swallowed, and took a drink from his bottle of water. Claire took a bite, finally. 
> 
> “He was a fuckin’ scrote.” 
> 
> Claire choked. “A what?”
> 
> Jamie loved how she spoke in her posh British accent. It always sounded like she said, ‘wot?’
> 
> “Basically, a scrotum. An Idiot.”
> 
> Jamie wiped his mouth and hands with his napkin. He balled up his wrapper, and looked at Claire. His spoke sincerely, honestly. “He was a fool not to realize what he had in ye, Claire. A blind fool.”
> 
> Claire dropped her head. She took a small bite, not daring to read too much into his compliments. Or his tone.
> 
> It was dark now. Cold. Claire liked the dark. She dwelt there in her mind, in her soul, every day since she first learned of Frank’s infidelities. Every day since she realized she wasn’t _enough_. That in the game of love, she was like the square on the Monopoly board that no one wanted because it didn’t collect enough rent, and never would, even with houses and hotels. 
> 
> Perhaps that was why she did what she did. Why she chose that dark, cold path at the end.
> 
> “Not every man makes that mistake. Some men would actually die to be with a woman such as yerself. Intelligent. Funny. Interesting. Gorgeous.” He spoke low out of the side of his mouth, “Wi’ a fantastic arse.”
> 
> Claire snorted, and Jamie bumped her shoulder with his. 
> 
> “So,” Having made his point Jamie moved to safer territory. He could tell she was becoming uncomfortable with his compliments. “The stomach contents. From the same eatery, no?”
> 
> “Yes,” Claire said. _He had created the lightest fracture in her soul. How had he managed? Why were her visions so jarring with his slightest touch? So raw? So passionate around this man? She would not pretend to have some vast knowledge of men, but she knew enough to know this feeling was unusual. Different. _
> 
> _Could she trust him?_
> 
> “I don’t know where it is.” She took a deep breath. “But I would know it, if I saw it.”
> 
> Jamie nodded, lips pursed. He dug a small caramel coloured book out of his pocket. “Can ye tell me more? Where do I start, Claire? Can ye describe the place at all for me?”
> 
> Claire was struck dumb for a moment. She stared at him as he waited. Pencil poised. Ready to listen. Ready to _believe_.
> 
> “You don’t think I’m crazy? You really believe me?”
> 
> “I believe ye, Claire.” He chuckled. “I dinna understand it a bit. Not yet. But I trust ye. I trust yer word. Trust that we’ve created a truth between us. Whatever ye tell me, I will believe ye.” Jamie spoke sincerely, his eyes not wavering from hers. 
> 
> “Besides. I’m Scottish, ken. Faeries in a glen, and all that.” 
> 
> His heart stopped at the smile that graced her face. An eclipse over this moonless night. Suddenly bright, without warning. 
> 
> The words came pouring out. Her gift, loosened. A bird free from its cage. She almost wept with the relief of it all. 
> 
> “It’s bright. Lots of glass. Windows. And cases. Glass cases where you can pick the ingredients you want. Small. Small, round tables. And the floor is blue. It’s…it’s cobalt blue. I’m sure of that.” 
> 
> Jamie was writing furiously. “Any idea of the neighbourhood? Any landmarks ye see near it?” 
> 
> Claire shook her head. “Sorry. No.”
> 
> “It’s fine. This is good. I’ll get started in the morning.” Jamie tucked his notes away. He stood up, and stretched out his hand for hers. When she hesitated, he dropped it and gathered up her things instead. 
> 
> She stood. “I’m sorry, Jamie.”
> 
> He shrugged. “Nothing to be sorry for. Come. I’ll take ye home.”
> 
> “No, I can-”
> 
> “Claire.” Jamie stepped in front of her. “I’ll see ye safe. That’s what friends do.” He watched her visibly relax. 
> 
> “But -” She tensed again. “Ye dinna have to be psychic to understand that I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”


	6. 1.6:  Neal's Yard

Jamie knocked on her door early. She was still in her robe, and a bit defensive. The bruise on her jaw long since faded since the last time he’d interviewed her. The house behind her, tidier. Cleaner. Key pieces of furniture missing, like the man’s recliner. 

“I’ve told you everything I know,” she stated. 

Jamie smiled. “I understand, Ma’am, but perhaps ye could tell me one thing? Where did ye both eat before yer husband passed?”

“Where did we eat? That was months ago now.” The woman thought for a moment. “I don’t remember the name of the place. It had a weird name.”

“Can ye remember where it was, exactly?” _Come on_, Jamie thought. _Give me one thing so I can follow through on Claire’s information. _

“Around Covent Garden station. Best I can do, Detective. It’s just a little hole in the wall, you know? Lots of shops, all with a central yard.”

Jamie thanked the woman, and left. Covent Garden was a start. When he talked to the girlfriend of the second victim he noticed the same defensive position. And the same healing of bruises. She’d narrowed it down further. He took out his phone to dial Claire and realized he didn’t have her number. 

He’d just have to pop round her place. 

* * *

They came up out of the tube station, and looked around. 

“Where the bloody hell do we start?” Claire could never be a detective. She liked the orderliness of her morgue. Nowhere to hide in there. Plus, she knew where to start with a body. “I mean. This place could be anywhere!”

“Up Long Acre to Neal’s Yard. It’s somewhere up there.” 

They walked up the busy street. No words exchanged between them. 

Anxiety gripped her. She never knew what her reaction was going to be. And they were never under her control. 

She scanned the shops hoping to catch a glimpse of it before it was upon her, so she could prepare. The streets were cobbled, the buildings red brick, some with colourful fronts. In any other circumstances she would enjoy poking around this area of London. 

Jamie sensed Claire’s nerves. She jumped at every car horn, every rumble of a lorry. When they turned off the main street and started down narrow cobble alleys she became more tense. It was almost as if she thought the place they sought was alive to jump out at her. 

He resisted the urge to take her hand, or place an arm around her in comfort. He might do more damage. He couldn’t imagine living like that, where your thoughts could assault you at any moment. Where a touch could render you helpless. He felt a compassion for Claire that he hadn’t properly felt for anyone before. As a police officer attachments were forbidden. You couldn’t be rational in a situation if you were invested in it. Your gut always reacted before your brain. So he set his pace to hers, and tried to stay in tune with her, without really looking at her.

Neal’s Yard was absolutely adorable. Colourful awnings. Red, white and blue flags. Brightly coloured cafes. She almost started to smile, then felt Jamie’s nudge. She looked to where he pointed, felt a small swoon. He put out his arms to steady her without touching her, almost as if he were waiting for her to fall into them. He was considerate. Respectful. And she liked that. 

Claire nodded, took a deep breath, and walked forward. She paused, scanned the store front. Noted everything. She opened the door to the tiny bistro. Immediately she staggered backwards in recoil, right into Jamie’s chest.

A cobalt blue floor.

Jamie didn’t dare use his hands. As far as he could tell, that’s what triggered her visions. Instead, he stepped up to Claire, placing his chest against her back like a wall. Her head fit just under his chin. 

_Dammit. It would have to fit perfectly._

He grabbed the door, opening it a bit wider. “Ye can do this,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Claire nodded again. They walked through the door. It was exactly as she pictured it. He had her sit at a small table while he perused the array of fresh lettuces and vegetables in the glass cases. 

“Can I help ye?” 

The voice was Scottish. Highland, like his. Her hair was a brighter red than his, and the eyes as green as the awning outside. He smiled, and turned on the charm.

“Aye, ye can.” He watched her eyes widen, and a smile cross her face.

“Where are ye from?” she asked, delighted. 

“Broch Morda. Ye’d never find it, even with a map. You?”

“Near Inverness. What brought ye to London?” She seemed friendly. If he warmed her up maybe she’d talk. 

“Did ye no’ hear me say I’m from Broch Morda? There’s maybe 20 folk live there.” He yawned in exaggeration, and she laughed. 

“Weel, welcome to my little restaurant. Are ye alone?” She cocked her head to the side, waiting for his answer.

“No. With my girl, over there.” He gestured vaguely to Claire. “We’ve never been here so how do we go about ordering then?”

She smiled politely. She quit flirting, but was still friendly. She explained each and every possible combination of food. Jamie nodded along then excused himself to talk to Claire. 

He managed to fold himself into the little white chair across from her. “Ye okay, Claire?”

“Don’t speak to me like that!” Claire shouted. 

Jamie reared back. _What the hell? _He was about to speak when he caught Claire’s look. Begging him to play along. He realized her game. _God, she was so clever._ He stage whispered to her low and furious. “Keep yer voice down.”

“No! Why? Are you afraid these people will realize how you treat me? Hmm?” 

Jamie grabbed her wrist, and Claire twisted it, but didn’t try to break free. She leaned forward and whispered back, “Go up and order take away. Doesn’t matter what just make sure you get a sample of everything. And salad dressings. No drinks. Be charming.”

He did as he was told. The redhead was like ice now. She put together the order. Bagged it. Took his money. 

He walked towards the door. “Claire, come,” he said, as if calling a dog. Claire stood and dragged her feet, head hung low.

“Grab my arm,” she whispered when they cleared the doorway. So he did. They walked to the end of the yard, and turned the corner. 

“Keep it up,” she said, and they walked until they had to turn down the next little alley.

At the last minute, Claire turned, and looked back up the street. 

There she was. 

Watching. Spying. Until Claire left her field of vision.

* * *

“Co-ni-um. Mac. Mac-u…” Jamie struggled with the Latin.

“Conium Maculatum. Common name, Hemlock. But that’s only in one of the salad dressings.” 

Heads bent together in the dimness of the morgue. Dark and red curls swirled together as they poured over the toxicology report. 

Claire turned her head and found herself millimeters from the ocean depths of his eyes. His arm around the back of her chair. His thigh butted up to hers. She pulled back. “That would be what the first victim consumed. The second death was different. Poison, for sure, but that caused heart failure, which is the result of a different type of plant.” 

“Hemlock!” Jamie was genuinely surprised. “Holy shit. I thought that was just the kind of stuff ye see in movies.”

Claire got up, and went over to one of the shelves by her desk. She struggled with a large volume, and dropped it with great noise in front of Jamie. 

“What’s this?” He eyed the tome speculatively.

“Just a hobby of mine. Botany. Medicinal botany, to be exact.” Claire flipped to the section she wanted. She showed it to Jamie. “There’s quite a few that could case heart failure. There has to be something else.”

She flipped a few pages in. “Convallaria majalis would cause the same symptoms that the second man died of. ”

“Con-va-whom??” 

Claire laughed. “Lily of the Valley.”

She felt excitement shimmy through her veins. “I need to go back.”

Jamie was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “Yer not a police officer. Yer not trained for this. I’ll find someone else.” 

“I can do it, Jamie. I’ll just say that it wasn’t enough. That you didn’t use enough. That I need something stronger.” She was warming to her idea. “You certainly can’t,” Claire reasoned. “She would expect you to be dead. At the very least she’ll be looking for your obituary. I’m the one who needs to go back.” Claire insisted. “I need to go back and get another sample.” 

* * *

“You let a Medical Examiner go undercover with you? What in hell were you thinking?” 

Chief Inspector John Grey was not impressed. James Fraser was one of his best detectives, but he’d never been this unprofessional before.

“I was thinkin’ how to get in her pants, if I’m honest.” Jamie shrugged. “I mean, John, have ye seen her? She’s -”

“Not my type,” John interrupted. He watched James smile at that. 

“I wanted to see her, so I used the opportunity to check out this place based on what the victims’ wife and girlfriend described.” Jamie shrugged. “And now we need more samples. I canna go back, obviously. So, she said she would.”

Chief Inspector Grey sat for a moment. He thought through every possible scenario as if it were a chess game. Every move, every mistake imaginable. He had to admit, this was a good idea. If they waited to build a portfolio for two other officers to go undercover, it would take weeks, risking the possibility of another death in the meantime. 

“Fine. But I want to speak to her first,” John said. And had to turn away from James’ brilliant smile. 

* * *

When amber eyes met green, Claire almost bolted. 

Almost. 

It took everything she had to fight the wave the rolled through her brain and threatened to knock her off her feet. This woman was a killer. While her intentions were good, her methods were not. Claire saw the flowers in the containers, and window boxes out front. Every one of them poisonous. Poisonous vines. The poisonous seeds of the flowers. The poison of the leaves. 

In this quiet corner of London, Death was everywhere.

Claire knew Death well. Personally. Professionally. 

Green eyes flicked past her as she hesitated in the doorway. She was looking for Jamie, Claire realized. John said to face this head on. Not to mince words or stay longer than she needed to. He said to let innuendo take over, to say nothing that might be entrapment. She approached the counter and said quietly, “I need a take out.” 

The green eyes roamed over her, probably looking for bruises. Claire discretely moved her hair to cover her neck, and fussed with the scarf around her neck. 

She looked at Claire. Nodded. 

She put the greens together silently, added proteins and extras. “Does he like lemon?”

Claire shrugged. She had to be careful.

The woman seemed to consider for a moment, then bent to her work choosing a squeeze bottle from behind the counter. 

Claire thought for a moment. “Is that your name on the front? How do you pronounce it?”

The green eyes flashed a suspicious look, then her brow cleared. “Geillis. And you?”

“Claire,” she responded. She was nervous. She could feel her smile tremble. 

The woman’s look softened as she snapped the lid on the take away. Claire dug in her bag for her wallet. Cash. Jamie said cash only. Her hands shook.

The red head placed the container in a bag and handed it over. 

“How much?” Claire had to clear the lump in her throat.

“On the house,” Geillis said. “Good luck.”


	7. 1.7:  The Hearing

> His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh. _Stay cool, Sorcha. _
> 
> He had names for her in his head. Names he couldn’t say out loud. 
> 
> Yet. 
> 
> Her name, Sorcha in Gaelic, for one. The other to do with her dark curls. 
> 
> Right now she was a witness in the Judge’s Hearing, being cross examined, and was doing very well. 
> 
> “Dr. Randall, how did you come to be in my client’s bistro, then?”
> 
> “I accompanied Detective Sergeant Fraser because the toxicology report came back citing Conium Maculatum as the poison which caused the first victim’s death, and he asked me if the second death was similar. It was not, so I researched which poison it could be. We went back to the bistro together in case the plant was somehow on display, and I could identify it because I’m well versed in Medical Botany.” 
> 
> “Please tell us the plants you did see, Dr. Randall,” the Judge interjected.
> 
> “Well, I saw Belladonna, and Poppies from which you get opium, Foxglove, Yellow Jasmine. Oh, and Sweet Pea vines.”
> 
> The Judge nodded to indicate he was finished with his question. 
> 
> “My client mentioned you came back again. Alone.”
> 
> Claire said nothing. 
> 
> “Dr. Randall?”
> 
> “Sorry. I was waiting for a question.”
> 
> Jamie shook his head and smiled at her impertinence.
> 
> The Barrister asked the question again, impatience in his tone. “Why did you go back to the bistro alone, Dr. Randall? And the bruises on your neck?”
> 
> Jamie sat up straighter. _Come on, mo neighean donn_. 
> 
> Claire looked from the Barrister, to the Judge, then back to the Barrister. “I went back to the bistro to try to find a different plant. Convallaria majalis. I thought these poisonous leaves might be among the greens one could choose for their salad. I was incorrect. They were blended into the salad dressings. I realized that when Ms. Duncan asked me whether or not “he” liked lemon.” Claire paused, and looked at the Judge again. “But I never had bruises on my neck.”
> 
> Geillis Duncan sat up in her chair, palms flat on the table. Her green eyes were blazing at Claire. The Barrister flicked a hand in her direction, silently instructing her to calm down. 
> 
> “You had on a scarf, Dr. Randall. My client said you were trying to cover up the bruises on your neck. Bruises from an abusive relationship.”
> 
> “I wore a scarf that day, but for no other reason than it looked good with my sweater.” Claire hit the perfect tone of dismissive professionalism. 
> 
> The Crown Prosecutor jumped in. “Your Honour, is Counsel admitting his client is guilty here? That she willfully poisoned two men because she deemed them to be abusive?” 
> 
> “No, I’m simply trying to ascertain if Dr. Randall presented herself falsely so as to entrap my client.” The Defense realized immediately what he’d done. Stupid mistake. 
> 
> Claire did not dare to look at Jamie. She kept her eyes trained on the Judge. 
> 
> “My Chambers, both of you. You are finished, Dr. Randall.”
> 
> Geillis stared at Claire. 
> 
> Claire gathered her things. 
> 
> Jamie stared at Claire. My God, she was cool. Calm. Collected. He wondered briefly if she knew the outcome, and that’s why she was so steady. 
> 
> It was over in minutes. 
> 
> Jamie caught up with Claire waiting in the foyer for the pelting rain outside to die down. He told her Geillis took a plea bargain. She admitted to having been abused, and neglected by her alcoholic husband. Geillis Duncan decided to ‘help’ other women in the same predicament. What they couldn’t get her to admit was how her own husband died. Apparently, Geillis said he was allergic to almonds. 
> 
> Claire knew better. 
> 
> Arsenic. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> It was dark, and fresh after the rain storm.
> 
> He opened her car door, and offered a hand to help her out in front of her town home. Two pints, and a celebration whisky later, she wasn’t too worse for wear. Her tawny eyes were slightly unfocused, but still bright with satisfaction over her performance at the Hearing. She smiled up at him, and took his hand. He tugged a little as she got to her feet, and she playfully leaned against his shoulder.
> 
> Jamie saw his opportunity and took it.
> 
> He hooked a finger under her chin, and lifted it. Pressed his lips to hers. Not too hard. Not too urgent. Just a kiss. A beginning. A start. 
> 
> Claire was startled. Her eyes were wide open as she watched Jamie close his. He broke the kiss, and without opening his eyes, found her lips again. He did not pressure her. It seemed just the softness of their mouths was enough. 
> 
> She let her eyes drift shut. Grabbed the lapels of his jacket. Stepped towards him, and felt his arms come around her. Gently. Easily. 
> 
> He tasted like whisky. Like the whisky they had in the pub. Without meaning to her tongue traced the seam of his lips tasting it. He smiled into the kiss and opened his mouth. The tip of his tongue touched hers. She shuddered as he sucked her tongue a little deeper into his mouth. 
> 
> When the kiss ended he didn’t let go. Instead he leaned back against his car, spread his legs, and brought her to stand between them. Still gripping his lapels, she felt like a teenager at the end of a date. She could feel him hard against her belly. 
> 
> “Jamie…” How to explain?
> 
> “It was time, no? I mean, our fourth date an’ all.”
> 
> “What?” Claire was confused. Her brain, fuzzy.
> 
> “Wot?” Jamie mimicked. “Aye. Fourth.”
> 
> “We’ve not been on a date, ever!” Claire placed her palms flat on Jamie’s chest, and tried to push away. He ran his hands slowly down her backside. Pressed her slightly forward. Against his desire.
> 
> She shivered. 
> 
> “The first date we had pizza…” 
> 
> “That wasn’t a date! It was after work!” 
> 
> Jamie grinned at her outrage. 
> 
> “Aye, it was. I paid, ken? That made it a date. The second time ye paid for me. Falafals, yeah?” 
> 
> “That was work!”
> 
> “Nay, it wasna!” Jamie teased, “It was strictly talk of yer life and mine. No work talk until we’d finished.” Her loved the way her brow furrowed in thought. 
> 
> Claire shook her head. She was having trouble coming up with a suitable argument. Jamie snuck in for another quick kiss. 
> 
> He continued. “Then, to cover our arses I told Chief Inspector we were on a date to the bistro, so that makes three, and finally, tonight at the pub.”
> 
> Claire laughed, truly amused. “None of those were dates, Fraser. You are making up this complete fantasy.” She poked his chest. 
> 
> Jamie hugged her a little tighter. She had to step a little closer. “Maybe. Maybe I wanted them to be dates, Claire.” He pushed a tendril behind her ear. “Listen, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall of Oxfordshire, England. Daughter of Julia and Henry Beauchamp. Raised by Quentin Lambert Beauchamp. Birthdate, October 20.”
> 
> Claire gasped. “You’ve investigated me!” She tried to push away. The feeling of being controlled began to rise up inside her. Began to sober her.
> 
> Jamie held fast. Stayed calm. Voice measured. Even. 
> 
> “I did. Not sorry for it, either. Ye fascinate me, Claire. And since gettin’ ye to talk about yerself is like interviewing a hostile witness, I was desperate. Top of yer class in medical school. Ye were one of the best surgeons in Boston.” 
> 
> “Ye ken what else I found out?” He stood up now, so as to be closer still. “That I’m falling in love with ye, Claire.”
> 
> She froze. No. This cannot be. 
> 
> She closed her eyes. Placed a hand over his heart.
> 
> Nothing. 
> 
> Not one tiny vision.
> 
> _Damn it all to hell. No, no, no, no, NO._
> 
> “You don’t know me, Jamie. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” Claire started to shake. She had to tell him. 
> 
> He closed his hand over hers as it lay on his chest. “What do ye see, Claire?” he asked softly. 
> 
> “Nothing,” she whispered. “That happens, when….when I….” _God, Beauchamp, out with it_. “When I’m too close…emotionally….to someone.” 
> 
> Jamie’s heart leapt. _Dare he hope?_
> 
> “Is that what happened with Frank, then? Is that why ye blame yerself? Ye never saw his accident?”
> 
> Claire swallowed hard. Took a deep breath. Tried to focus on his face. The accident swam in front of her eyes again. Suddenly, she was back there. 
> 
> She took a step away from him.
> 
> “I did see, Jamie. When he brushed past me after our argument I saw it all. The black ice. The tree. The twisted car. All of it.”
> 
> She stepped back again. And again. 
> 
> His hands dropped from her hips. She was free from his touch.
> 
> “And I didn’t do a damn thing to stop him. I saw it. And I didn’t say a word.”
> 
> She saw Jamie’s eyes widen. She _felt_ his shock. 
> 
> “I sent Frank to his death.” 


	8. 1.8:  Case Closed

> She had tried to be sad when Frank died. She really did. She went to the hospital to identify him. She looked at his bent and broken body for a long time.
> 
> Nothing.
> 
> She’d been married to the man for a long time. Loved him once. But at that moment she felt nothing. Well, that wasn’t completely true.
> 
> Relief.
> 
> She was free. Free from his condescension. Free from his judgement. Free from his mocking. Free from his lying. His cheating. His cowardice. 
> 
> So this…this pain. This was something she wasn’t equipped for. 
> 
> Everything hurt. Her head. Her eyes. Her heart.
> 
> Her soul. 
> 
> Her heavy, dirty soul. 
> 
> She was such a fool. 
> 
> Every time Claire wiped the tears from her eyes, her cat, Adso, would lick the salt from her fingers. She rubbed the scruff behind the gray’s ears. 
> 
> She was disgusted with herself. 
> 
> She let herself hope. Albeit a little. But she had dared to hope. And that damnable solid, mahogany-haired, clever, sexy, decent man, when he realized what she had done, had looked at her with complete horror. 
> 
> It was nothing less than she deserved. 
> 
> How could she explain to a man who hunted murderers for a living why she did what she did? How could she explain that it was the only way to gain her freedom? Her self-esteem? Her worth? How could she explain that those things were worth a man’s life? It was impossible. 
> 
> Curled into herself in the pitch dark of her room, she couldn’t stop the flow of tears. Slowly. Silently. Continuously. _This _was why she liked to be alone. _This _was why she preferred the dead. 
> 
> The dead could not judge. The dead could not be disappointed. The dead didn’t care about her secrets. 
> 
> The dead let her live. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> His feet hit the pavement in a rhythmic pounding. It was late, and he really shouldn’t be running at this hour. But he was trusting that his 6′4″ muckle-sized frame would put off any would-be assholes. Besides, he needed the exertion. Needed to push himself into pain. 
> 
> A different pain. A physical pain. He could bear that kind of pain. 
> 
> He ran along the Thames, feeling the breeze off the water. The damp chill on his overheating skin. 
> 
> One minute he’d held the world in his arms. Next, his arms were empty. He kept seeing her standing there. Panicked. Alone. Withdrawn. 
> 
> He couldn’t find the words. Any words, to tell her it wasn’t her fault. 
> 
> Instead he stood there like a eejit, and watched her run into her house. 
> 
> It all made sense now. Why she became an M.E. Why she preferred to be alone. Why she didn’t date, or let herself get too close to a man.
> 
> Because she believed she killed her husband. 
> 
> Except, she really didn’t. Logically, even if she had told Frank, he might not have listened. Even if he hadn’t gone out that night it may have happened the next morning. Just because she ‘saw’ it, didn’t make it her responsibility. 
> 
> How he could he explain that this wasn’t murder? How could he explain that Frank’s accident was the result of his free will? That maybe Karma handed him that black ice for his lying, cheating, controlling, abusive behaviour? How to explain that Frank was a grown man who disregarded his life, and his wife when he drove out into Mother Nature’s wrath? It was impossible. 
> 
> Frank Randall had killed her spirit. And that was the horror that struck him to his core. 
> 
> He ran, and ran, and ran some more. And even though he tried to tell himself that it was a coincidence, it really wasn’t. He’d run to Claire’s house. 
> 
> Panting he stood outside the darkened home. He braced his hands on his knees and took great, gulping breaths. 
> 
> He straightened finally, and dug out his mobile. He pressed her number. 
> 
> No answer. 
> 
> He waited for the voicemail and began to talk. Hoped for a light in a window. When he ran out of time, he dialed and spoke again. Again. And again. Until he said everything he could think of. 
> 
> He hoped it was enough.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The ringing phone startled her. She jumped, and Adso flew to his feet. The light from her screen momentarily bathed the room in a ghostly glow. 
> 
> Jamie.
> 
> She let it ring. She heard the ping of a voicemail notification.
> 
> When it rang again, she jumped. Same thing happened.
> 
> He called seven times in all. Each time he left a message. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to call again she hit the icon to start her messages. 
> 
> His warm Scottish burr filled her bedroom. 
> 
> “Claire. I ken what yer thinkin’. It’s no’ yer fault. I ken ye think I blame ye. I don’t. Yer husband made a choice, Claire. He made a few, to be honest. All of them poor. The choice to not honour his vows. The choice to not be faithful. The choice to be jealous.” The message ended abruptly. She hit the second one. 
> 
> He didn’t miss a beat. 
> 
> “The choice to let his pride get in the way. The choice to get behind the wheel of a car and drive off into a winter’s storm. That’s his choice, Claire, and sight or no, ye couldna have stopped him. Ye know this. Ye know it in yer heart. Just as ye know that I am not him. That I am a man who-” 
> 
> Quickly, another one.
> 
> “-a man who makes his own decisions, and blames no one. I dinna need yer sight, Claire. I’ve my own, in a way. I’m a cop. With a strong instinct. I ken good. I ken evil. And my gut tells me yer a kind woman who brings justice into the world with her gift. My eyes tell me yer the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He paused here, and time ran out.
> 
> Again.
> 
> “My soul tells me that we were meant to be together. Yer gift just confirms it.” He chuckled low into the phone, and the sound filled her bedroom. She sighed heavily. “I’m actually outside. On the sidewalk.” She sat up in bed, and dislodged Adso. She dare not risk a look. “Claire. _Sorcha_. There is light in you. That’s yer name in Gaelic. _Sorcha, _means Light.” His voice broke. The call cut off. 
> 
> She fumbled for the next message. Gift? Did he just call her burden a gift? Her tears fell anew. 
> 
> “Dammit, Claire. He’s lucky he’s dead.” A longer pause. The sound of his breathing. Then, “I will wait. I promise. If I have to wait 200 years,” a small laugh, and the next words in a rush, “which I’d rather not to be honest because I’m looking forward to the sex, no’ gonna lie. But, I’ll wait.” She half laughed, half cried at that.
> 
> She pressed the next message. 
> 
> “Stop punishing yerself, Claire. For there is no crime here. It was Frank who lied, who killed yer spirit, who stole yer confidence, betrayed ye and broke yer trust. It’s his crime, no’ yers. Think. Really think. Would he have listened had ye told him?” His words cut off. She sat for a moment. Thought hard. 
> 
> She hit the final message.
> 
> “Truth is, I’m no’ really concerned. Ye’ve seen us. Ye already know. Ye ken there’s nothing to forgive. Ye just need to wrap yer head around us. Give us a chance, Claire. Trust me. I will love ye, and love ye well.” 
> 
> Silence. 
> 
> She bolted to the window. The sidewalk outside was empty. He’d gone. Claire crawled back into bed. Pulled the covers up around her ears. Adso adjusted himself on her pillow. She raised her phone up, feeling like a child in a blanket fort. 
> 
> She played the first message again. 
> 
> **CASE CLOSED. **


End file.
